Prophet
by FirstLadyofTheStage
Summary: Young Mary Alice Brandon is taken away from her parents to an asylum. She slowly loses hope, until one day she opens her eyes and she is a vampire. Her journey to the Cullens', beginning at age seven.
1. Chapter 1 Asylum

"Mary Alice," a whisper curled through the dark. "Mary Alice. Wake up."

I was seven years old, and my sister Cynthia was nine. I knew whose voice it was by the way she said my name. My parents never said my name with any sort of love, but Cynthia did.

"What is it?" And then I saw it.

"Do you see it?" Cynthia asked. "I just overheard them talking about it."

"I'm not sure what I see," I confessed. I did what Cynthia had taught me, delving deep into the vision and describing every last detail.

"It's dark. The room is a small square. I'm scared. I'm alone. I can feel something hit me. It hurts. And then my vision goes black and my arms and legs are moving but I can't feel them..."

I pulled myself out of the abyss that was my visions. "Cynthia!" I cried out. "What _was _that?"

"It's called an _asylum_," Cynthia related. "It's for crazy people."

Maybe most ordinary kids would have protested, would have said, "But I'm not crazy!" I was different. I _was _crazy. I had visions of the future, blurry visions that always came true.

In some regions or religions, that would have made me a prophet, but my family wasn't that region/religion.

My family locked me in my room for days at a time if I talked about _any _visions. They took away my food and tried to starve me to death. They hit me, hard, with a razor strap. They hated any mention at all of my future-telling.

"When?" It was the only word I could force through my mouth. I had always known they'd probably kick me out. But so soon?

"Soon," Cynthia replied ominously. "As soon as tomorrow."

I swallowed. I wanted to protest, but I knew it probably wouldn't do much good. Maybe I would be safer there. They couldn't touch me. They couldn't hurt me.

Of course, neither could Cynthia.

"I need help," I said without meaning to. As soon as I'd spoken, I wanted to kick myself. Cynthia did everything she could to help me, and I repaid her by asking for more?

She stroked my hair. "Of course you do," she soothed. "I'll try to help you. I'll do everything I can..."

Another vision came, this time one of Cynthia with me. She was there, lying on the floor, arms and legs twisting in strange positions.

"Don't," I instructed. "I'll be fine."

She looked at me, concern sketched on her face. "Did something happen?" she asked.

I just shook my head. "It's nothing," I lied. "Nothing at all, as long as you don't try to help."

Cynthia's face softened. "I love you, Mary Al."

"I love you too, Cynthia."

I curled up beside her and fell asleep, lulled by my sister's peaceful breathing.

In the morning, I ate breakfast like always. I carefully watched the future. I could see my parents breaking the news to me, but I couldn't see _when_. I tried to tell Cynthia about the vision.

"It's at the table. We're all there, all eating. Mother looks up and clears her throat. She hands me a brochure, lets me look through it. Then Father starts explaining. It's an institution for people like you. People who are special..."

My voice trailed off and broke. I looked around our small, cramped bathroom that Cynthia and I were hiding in. "What are we eating?" she asked.

I shook my head. "I can't tell."

"You must be able to," she insisted. "You told me we were eating, so what are we eating?"

I thought back to my vision. "Potatoes. Steak and potatoes. It must be an upcoming holiday..." What was today's date? September 19th. My parents' anniversary was the 23rd.

"It's their anniversary," I declared, "and I'm giving them the best gift I can."

Cynthia hugged me. "Oh, don't say that. Now come on, we'll be late to school."

I dressed in my forest green dress and black patent leather shoes, then walked the few blocks to school.

"What do you _really _think about my visions?" I asked her. "Why was I given them? What are they?"

"I think you were blessed by God," Cynthia declared, "because there's no one on earth better than you. And I think they're pieces of the future that you get because you're special."

I glowed. No one could make me feel better like Cynthia.

At school that day, I was ignored, as always. Schoolmates had heard rumors of my vision, ever since I told my best friend Janey Freeman and she told Mary Claire Davids and she told Julia Chester and...well, you get the idea.

Suffice it to say I was not the favorite child of my classmates. I didn't have the best grades and I didn't talk much and the only person I ever smiled around was my sister.

Cynthia was the popular one, the beautiful one. Her hair was long and shiny, with a slight wave. Her cheeks were rosy red and she was always smiling and laughing. She had plenty of friends. She brought home Marlee and Linnea all the time, and they'd disappear into our room to laugh and joke.

"I don't _mean _to leave you with Mother and Father," she swore. "I just kind of...forget."

Me, well, I had never had a friend since Janey Freeman. Janey was a bit of an odd one too. Her ribbons were forever falling out and she smelled like cats. Her father was dead, so that was the first thing everyone told about her.

At this school, your popularity was based on what Jo-Ann Leslie told the new kids about you. Jo-Ann was a hall monitor, and she took every new kid under her wing. She told them about every girl in the school.

"That's Mary Alice Brandon. _Don't _talk to her; she's weird. People say she sees visions of the future."

"That's Cynthia Brandon. She's really nice. Maybe you could be her friend?"

"That's Janey Freeman. Her father died, so try to be nice."

And that was all anyone ever was to Janey. _Nice, polite, cordial_. But no one took the time to get inside her head.

Next year, Jo-Ann would leave the school, and one of the other third-graders would be appointed to introduce new kids. But for now, I was just "the weird one."

After school, I went into the alley for a little while. I had a friend in an alley cat that I'd named Alexandra. I called her Sandra, or Sandy for short. I fed her bits of my lunch.

I went behind and held out the sandwich. "Here, kitty kitty kitty," I cooed. "Here, Sandra."

Sure enough, with a loud "MEOW!" she raced toward me, gulping down the sandwich. I laughed, a rare occasion, and scratched her head.

"Hey, cute little girl," I praised, rubbing my chewed-off nails across her head. "Hey. I'm going to an asylum, baby."

I wasn't an idiot. I could see Sandra's future. At the moment, no one was ever going to take her in. No one needed a ratter. She would waste away while I was gone, and starve to death.

I would have cried, but I didn't mourn anyone. Sadness surrounded us in this world. Grief was our forever friend. People and cats died all the time. It was the circle of life.

"I'm not sane." I practiced saying the words out loud, lying to myself. I _was _sane. I actually _did _have visions; the things I saw came true.

And I didn't act crazy. Well, maybe a little to conform, but not _too _crazy. I didn't go around with a necklace of garlic around my neck and chant in Japanese or anything psychotic like that.

To me, I was just a quiet little girl with visions of the future and unloving parents.

But I knew the rest of the world would never see it that way. I stood up and waited to accept my fate.


	2. Chapter 2 Goodbyes

I knew I wouldn't have much time before I said goodbye.

Over the next couple days, I tried to develop some sort of fear about this asylum. It didn't really work. This was because I, as a child, could not possibly imagine the horrors that lay before me.

All I saw was that I was getting away from Mother and Father. I saw it as some sort of sanctum. I _wanted _to go.

Cynthia wasn't too worried, but she was more worried than me. She knew more, some information she withheld, but I'll get to that later.

I methodically ate, slept, and talked the next few days. Just biding my time. Then on the 23rd, I woke up in a cold sweat.

I'd had a nightmare about the asylum. I was trapped in a room, and the light was just slowly going out. As it went out, I had started to try to escape, but I fell and fell and fell.

Then I woke up.

I didn't know then how scarily accurate my dreams would be. So I went to school as usual. My teacher took me aside and interrogated me.

"Mary Alice, you've seemed kind of...out of touch these past few weeks. Is everything fine with you?"

I gave her a look of feigned innocence. "What are you saying?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were healthy."

She meant well, but she wasn't really helping. "I'm fine," I lied.

The teacher didn't look convinced. "If you're sure..."

"I'm sure," I practically shouted. _Please leave me alone now,_ I mentally pleaded.

She nodded and let me go back to my penmanship homework. I tried and failed to concentrate.

During recess, I sat on the swings, kicking my feet back and forth. I listened to Jo-Ann's monologue to today's new kid, Gertrude Frank.

"See that girl, over there on the swings, not swinging? That's Mary Alice Brandon. _Don't _talk to her. She's weird. Her sister, Cynthia, is all right, but she's a lot older than you. She'd probably still talk to you though."

"Oh, and there's Sister Abigail. She's the second-grade teacher and she's really smart. See the kind of old lady over there, with the purple dress on? That's Sister Annabel. She's nice, but she's got a bit of a memory problem. If you're in her class, you'll want to help her out."

I would be leaving all of this behind. How could I be so nonchalant about this whole thing? I'd never see any of them again.

Granted, I wasn't close to any of my fellow schoolgirls, but I had been waking up and coming here for seven hours for the past two years.

I didn't need to do this. Suddenly I wanted to resist my parents on this asylum thing.

I looked through the future for some sort of change. Nothing. The girl in the asylum was wearing a different dress, crying miserably, but she was still in the asylum.

I could delay it by a few days at best. There was no choice. I was going to an asylum.

On sudden impulse, I kicked my feet and pushed the swing up. I'd seen other kids do this. Arms back, legs forward. Arms forward, legs back. Repeat.

When I could feel the chain go slack as I reached the highest point, I took a deep breath. Then I pushed myself up and out.

The flight wasn't worth the fall. I landed, hard, feeling stabbing pains in the arm that had broken my arm. People gathered around me, looking at me with wide eyes.

I didn't want to see any of them. I jumped to my feet and raced home.

My parents looked up when they heard the door open. "Mary Alice?" Father asked without seeing me. It wouldn't be Cynthia.

"There was an accident at school. On the swings. I got hurt." It was the first time I had ever out-and-out lied to my parents.

"Oh, sweetie," my mother said without sympathy. "What did you hurt?"

"I'm not sure," I declared. Not a lie.

"Well, let me see it."

She examined my arm, feeling for sensitive spots.

"Based on when you said 'ouch', it looks like you didn't break anything," Mother surmised.

"How did this happen?" Father demanded.

"I was swinging. I went too high, and I fell off," I answered tersely.

They wrapped my arm in a bandage and sent me to bed with some chicken soup.

I still saw them telling me about the asylum at dinner. I just had my arm in a sling, eating with my left hand.

I read for a while, but couldn't seem to stay focused. What had I done this afternoon?

I had heard such terms before - self-inflicted injury, suicide. They were for people who were crazy.

But maybe I shouldn't be so judgmental. After all, _I _was crazy, right?

Whatever I was, I knew I hadn't been trying to kill myself. I wasn't looking to die. Just looking to do _something _out of the ordinary.

Ordinary. Ha. I almost forced myself to laugh, but decided it wasn't worth the trouble.

By "ordinary," I meant my usual submission. Just taking everything that came at me, being able to see it but not to do a thing about it.

I wanted to take a stand today, to change that...and it looked like today would be the day I was locked up for good.

I shrugged and tried to focus more on my book. It didn't help.

I wrote down my vision of the asylum to try to concentrate.

_I am in the dark. I am alone. The room is a small, claustrophobic square. I'm scared. People come for me in white coats and hook me up to a scary machine. They push a button, and I feel fire in my veins._

_I'm incapacitated. I can't move, but my limbs are thrashing wildly around me. I'm foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. I feel dead. Is this what dying it like. I don't want to know. _

_Somehow I know I'm not dying but I want to die I'm not safe here I need to escape but where can I go I can't go anywhere I'm trapped_

With a start, I looked up from my vision journal. I'd been staring off into space for God knows how long.

I sighed, closed my journal and put it back under my bed. I didn't know what to do to amuse myself.

So for a while I just laid on my bed, until Cynthia came. She rushed right to our room to see me.

"Mary Alice, are you okay?" she shrieked. "I didn't see what happened, but Rose told me you...fell...off the swings."

I shook my head. _I'll tell you later _was the message I was trying to send.

It worked. "Girls!" Mother shouted. "Come to dinner!"

I stumbled down the stairs. It was time to accept my fate.

Over a celebratory supper, Mother and Father talked about the stock market and World War I and blah blah blah.

I ate, gave an occasional nod when appropriate, and thought a lot. _This is it, _I told myself. _Today is the day. _

"Oh, and Mary Alice, dear!" Mother announced brightly. "We've got a wonderful idea for you, darling."

"We think we should send you to this lovely home," Father agreed. "Here, take a look."

He showed me a picture of it. _Oak Hills A_, the sign read. Father had tried, unsuccessfully, to cut off the "asylum" part.

"I'll go," I conceded, "but I know it's an asylum."

Mother looked flustered. "Why ever would you think that?"

"Because I can tell the future and I can see myself in a room that locks from the outside, enduring shock therapy," I responded.

Mother tried to summon a response, and came up with this excuse: "Oh, Mary Alice, you know you have a few problems. This will help you straighten them out."

"Yes, and numbers one and two on my list of problems is _you two_," I spat.

"Mary Alice! Go to your room!" Father boomed.

I stomped up the stairs, yelling, "I knew you were going to say that!"

I packed a bag full of all my clothes and then alternately read and wrote for an hour. After that, I fell asleep.

They drove me to the asylum in our brand-new car. Something wrong with _that _sentence, don't you think?

Mother and Father kissed my forehead goodbye, but Cynthia hugged me so tight I thought I would break. "I love you, Mary Alice," she whispered. "I'm going to think of you for the rest of my life, my brave little sister. I'm going to name my first daughter after you. I'm not going to forget you."

"Love you too, sissy," I whispered back. I couldn't promise her the same thing.

I _could _forget her. I could forget everything I knew.

With that, I started to cry.

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	3. Chapter 3 In Shock

I never saw Cynthia again.

Mother walked me in and registered me. The receptionist was a plump, fat woman with her upper lip permanently curled into a sneer.

I guess working with crazy people did that to you.

"Yes?" she asked, as if she'd been sleeping and Mother had woken her up.

"This is Mary Alice Brandon. She's a new patient," Mother explained.

"Go down the hall and make a right, then take the next two lefts," the receptionist directed. "That's her room. I'll walk with you."

_Then why did you bother giving us directions? _I wondered, but I didn't say anything. I wanted to appear quiet, tame, sensible.

We followed her like sheep. She opened my room and ushered me in. I took a tentative step in.

As soon as I had a toe in the room, the receptionist shut the door and locked it.

I was immersed in total darkness. I had seen the room for a microsecond and was now wishing I could remember it.

I tried to feel for the light switch. Surely there had to be one, right? But no. I spent some time - could have been a minute, could have been a year - looking for one.

I moved my hands up and down every inch of the wall. Nothing.

_Okay, _I thought, trying not to panic, _that's all right. I just need to find everything. _

Through three of the five senses (omitting taste and touch) I located the toilet, bed, and all four walls.

The room was exceedingly, almost cruelly sparse. There was a small cot in the center of the room that served as a bed, a toilet, and a sink.

The sink barely worked, but I strived to use it almost every day. Who knew what kind of people had been in this room before?

I looked around, trying to force my eyes to adjust, but nothing worked. It was only very gradually that my eyes started to see the varying shades of gray. It could have been several years for all I knew.

I thought I was in hell, at least until they started the shock treatment and I learned the real definition of hell.

My eyes had only just adjusted when the doctor opened the door. The flash of light was blinding, like someone waving a flashlight in your eyes the minute you wake up.

"My name is Dr. Veravaz," he declared. "Is this Mary Alice Brandon?"

The words came out sharp and bitter. "What's it to _you_?"

I saw him smirk a little. "Excellent. Come, come," he directed.

There is nothing quite like electroconvulsive therapy. First, they hooked me up to a frightening machine. It was made of metal, and it sent chills down my spine.

Next, Dr. Veravaz flicked a switch, and gasoline lit through my veins. Fire coursing through my body. A shock like none you've ever felt before.

For the final step, they wheeled me on the gurney back to my room, still feeling the tremors of the shock.

Teeth chattering, face burning, I lay in the middle of my room. My arms jerked, my legs contorted.

I lost all control of my mind and body. I could feel, as if in a parallel universe, my limbs seizing up, but I couldn't do anything to stop it.

You would think that you could eventually euthanize yourself to the pain, fall asleep, or at least get used to it. No. Every movement, every sensation was renewed every single time.

I didn't know how long I stayed in the asylum. Eventually, I lost count of the number of times they administered shock treatment.

Don't get me wrong; I _tried _to count. I wanted to give myself a lot of things to remember, so I wouldn't forget what mattered most.

But some days, I'd wake up and try to recall what number I'd been at yesterday. Twenty-eight, right? Or was it twenty-nine? It _was _less than thirty, I knew that. I think.

Eventually, I gave it up altogether. I made the conscious decision to stop counting, because I wanted to regain some control.

With everything that a human experiences, people want to know what was the best and worst part of it. Whether it was summer camp or shock therapy, everyone liked to arrange things from least to greatest.

There was no best part of electroconvulsive treatment. Everything was the worst of its category. Each seizure was worse than the one before; all the shocks were more horrible lightning shocks than the previous ones.

But perhaps even worse than the shock therapy was the thought of being totally alone.

When I had nothing better to do, I paced through my whole room, running my hands over every square inch of wall. There was no light switch.

I had found the doorway within...well, a short amount of time. I think. I couldn't really tell much of anything.

Anyway, what I was saying was, I'd found the door. It locked from the inside.

So Dr. Veravaz was intent on keeping his patients trapped in a black abyss.

That was not fine with me, but I couldn't do much to stop it. At the age of...seven, I thought...I had come to realize an important life truth. There was no need to worry about things I was powerless to change.

Still, it irked me to be locked up for nearly half my life. Oh, what was I talking about? It irked me to be _in _this place to begin with. Everything else was just a triviality.

Sometimes I tried to escape. I took the sink off its hook and tried to crawl through the pipe. I took the bed and made a battering ram and banged it into the side wall.

Nothing. My visions never even changed.

I didn't know if the asylum had cured/robbed me of my powers, or if it was just my destiny to stay in it for the rest of my life.

Whatever the reason, I could no longer see myself anywhere but here.

It was sometimes frightening, but not often. The shock treatment didn't get any better, but I didn't expect it to. The lonesomeness never ceased, but I developed some resistance to it.

Sometimes I talked to myself, just to hear my own voice. But I didn't do it a lot. Only when I was desperate for some humanity.

Most of the time, though, I just slept or thought or sat idly.

What did I think about? Everything. I tried to calculate my age, with little success. Had I spent a year here or ten? A week or a century?

I couldn't even tell. I didn't really care. What did it matter? I was going to die here, whether I was eight or eighty-eight.

One day I tried to look at myself during the shock treatments, to determine my age.

I was short, perhaps 5' 2". I was too skinny to tell if I had any shape at all. My hair was the color of Coca-Cola and wildly tangled.

From that day on, I decided I was seventeen. I didn't really know _why _I picked that age. I had heard that it was a wonderful age, full of blooming and promise and celebration.

So I picked an age. I didn't know why and I didn't know when and I certainly didn't if I was right.

I just had to wait and see.

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	4. Chapter 4 Choosing Sides

Most people think they know what dying is. They think it's when your heart stops beating, when your lungs can't take in oxygen.

But as the past...ten years had proved, things could change. I thought I knew myself, and then I just about broke my own arm. I thought I knew that my parents loved me, however averse they were to showing it.

I was wrong, of course. When had I ever been right about life?

Dying is when, even for a second, you forget your sister's face when you told her you'd had another vision. Dying is when you innocently try to remember the way your favorite dress looked on you and, damn it all, you can't.

Dying is forgetting life.

I didn't notice it at first. It was just little things, bit-part people I couldn't quite conjure up.

I'd forget that Janey Freeman had a heart-shaped face, or that my little alley cat had a spot of black on her side that looked exactly like a paw print.

But as time marched on, it got harder to remember Cynthia's hair, or my mother's eyes. I stopped being able to bring back what our front door looked like.

I tried not to sleep too much. If one day, I _finally_, finally remembered that Cynthia's eyes were a deep golden brown, I lost all memory of that when I slept. I'd have to be dead on my feet before I would actually lay down and nod off.

Even without sleep, I knew exactly what was happening. I was losing my memory.

Oh, not in the Alzheimer's way. I could tell you the last thing I'd eaten, the dress that barely fit that I'd put on a few hours ago.

I was starting to forget the long-term things. The asylum had succeeded in taking away my past and my future. All I had left was the present.

And presently, the present was awful. I was starting to forget everything I had.

One day or night, I wasn't really sure which, I woke up from a nap. And for a half a moment, I couldn't remember Cynthia's name.

It was the first step toward a long downfall. Eventually, I forgot everything about Cynthia and my parents and all my old life.

_You don't understand, _I tried to explain to some not-there person. _You don't know what it's like in here. I just...I gave up. I gave up, and I freely admit it._

When you're a kid, you always have a bunch of adults all over you about that one message: Don't give up.

Well, I have news for you. Sometimes, when you are fighting and fighting and you've known from the start you're not going to win, you have to give up.

It's not so much giving up as an acceptance of what you've done, what you've tried, what you've failed to do.

It's a soul-searching experience, forgetting everything you know. When I tried it, I spent some quality time with just myself.

Although I must caution you, for some people, it's a rude awakening. It sure was for me.

Maybe I didn't plan it too well. I mean, I did it in an _asylum, _for crying out loud. It's not exactly the best time for soul-searching. That could be how some people wound up there.

Anyway, so, I found out a lot about myself. You know how some people say they're good in a crisis? Well, they're usually not.

Especially not me. My preferred method of dealing with trauma was either screaming and banging my head against the wall, or sleeping.

Passive-aggressive, yep, that's me. But anyway, we were talking about my little pilgrimage into the far corners of my mind.

I would have liked to have tested my vision capabilities, but it didn't really work out.

I had visions of me getting the electric shock treatment, being brought food, never getting out of here. Well, no _duh. _Any psychic worth their salt would have told me that.

So I worked on my character. I couldn't exactly make myself into a kinder person. I mean, kindness is based on how you treat others. And what others did I see? Dr. Veravaz?

No way was I going to forgive him for this, _ever. _I'd rather die a thousand times. I couldn't possibly...well, I didn't need to dwell on that.

There was no need to think about things that only upset me. The one upside to this was that I didn't have to face anything I didn't want to.

If I had a flaw in my character (which everyone did), then so be it. I was in an asylum. Who really cared?

So for a while I was in my little enjoyable limbo. And then I started to wake up slowly from an imperfect dream.

I was a monster. What was _wrong _with me? (I had forgotten completely about my visions.) What kind of child was sent away by their own parents?

This new era of self-loathing and depression was tougher than the last one. At least before, I'd been able to enjoy myself. I'd had a nonchalant attitude toward...well, everything.

But now everything was different. I cried for weeks at a time. I'd sit in the middle of the room and just stare into the darkness. I refused to eat or drink for days, then I'd polish off an entire tray within minutes.

My new outlook sent me reeling into a nothing world. I forgot everything. Sometimes I even forgot where I was.

I would wake up, sure I was dead and had ended up in hell. Then I'd endure the shock treatment and I'd realize I was alive, after all.

The world was pitch dark and desensitized. I sometimes hyperventilated or threw up for no reason. Then I'd lay in the bed, breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling.

Still, I didn't feel any of this. Sometimes I wasn't even aware I was doing it. I had no concern with the outside world.

Occasionally, I got a new trunkful of clothes. They told me who it was from, but I never really remembered.

They fit, and I'd change eventually, once my dresses were too badly stained to wear.

I ate and wore clothes and slept. Nothing was ever interesting or fun. I just kept living.

It wasn't like I hadn't tried to stop. Living, I mean. I starved myself sometimes, but always caved in. I tried to drown myself in the sink, but then I realized it had a drain and the toilet was just too gross.

Then, eventually, I became too detached to even try that. I lay in bed, too dispassionate to move. They had to pick me up from my (death)bed and cart me to shock therapy.

After the treatment, they laid me near the door. I didn't even want to move. They dragged me to and from therapy, but I didn't care.

Maybe that was why, when the vampire came, I never felt it.

**Hey people! Thank you so much for the _excellent _reviews. Y'all are great! Anyway, I want FOUR reviews for this chapter before I post the next one. Luv ya! **


	5. Chapter 5 The Change

I was never aware of any of this. All I know was told to me later, when I started to hunt down my past.

It would seem that my good friend Dr. Veravaz was a vampire. I hadn't noticed anything strange about him, but what did I know?

And Dr. Veravaz had formed a special attachment with all of his patients. He was always sure to keep them human. He never bit them or killed them. He had an impeccable track record. In this way, he was much like Carlisle.

James, on the other hand, was a vicious killer. He had stopped by in this town to feed, and he had gotten a whiff of me.

For him, I was _la tua cantante, _the singer. My blood smelled better to him than any other human's on the planet.

So he sought me out, eager to play his sadistic game. Dr. Veravaz had to make a choice.

He announced he was quitting his practice and shut down the asylum. The rest of the patients went to jails or hospitals. Me, he took with him.

Unsure, he at first tried to outrun James. He put me in his niece's clothes, to confuse the scent, and changed my appearance drastically.

He cut my hair with arts-and-crafts scissors and let me borrow his niece's dress. But it wasn't enough, of course. He knew it wouldn't be.

Dr. Veravaz took me in his car and trekked across the country. I lay across the backseat the whole time, so motionless and still he must have thought me dead, except he could hear a pulse.

He swerved, took strange exits, trying to throw James off the scent. But nothing worked, of course.

Finally, we ended up on the other side of the country, Washington State. We were, in fact, dangerously close to Forks, where the Cullens lived. Of course, at the time, Rosalie, Emmett, Jasper, Bella and I had yet to join them.

Dr. Veravaz knew he had no choice. James had backed him into a corner. He was on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. He could either go down south, or go east.

Going south was dangerous. It was sunnier, and there was more of a chance he'd be discovered. The absolute last thing he needed was having the Volturi after him, too.

But going east was equally as dangerous. He'd inevitably cross paths with James, and that could _not _end well.

He left me in a hotel room and went out to seek James.

James was sitting in a car. Stolen, judging by the Nevada license plate. He was drumming his fingers on the wheel when Veravaz approached. James grinned a tooth-bearing smile.

"Veravaz, my old friend," he addressed him. "It's been decades."

"James. Stop. Just...stop," Veravaz pleaded.

James kept smiling slyly at him. "Why?"

"Because this girl's been in our asylum since she was seven," Veravaz answered readily. "She's lived a solitary life, full of torture and hatred. Can't you just spare her?"

"Who gave her that life?" James countered. "Who's the one running the asylum here? _I'm _going to put her out of her misery."

"James. _I had to,_" Veravaz stressed. "You don't understand. Her parents blackmailed me. I sought them out after a few years. The child was calm, docile - totally sane.

"They instructed me to keep her locked up, and keep up the shock treatment. If I didn't, they threatened to disclose our secret.

"This information doesn't go past this car, James. Even if she survives this encounter...even if anyone who knew her sees you again, tell them everything _but _this." Veravaz interrupted his rant and shook James by the shoulders. "Say it! Swear to it!"

Frightened by the old one's power, James answer, flustered. "I swear," he choked out. "But she won't survive."

With that, Veravaz knew what he had to do.

He would turn the girl into a vampire.

He would never tell another soul about her parents' blackmail.

He would kill himself after the bite.

This was turning into quite a morbid runaway tale, but it had to become such. He had no other choice.

It frightened him, but he had to do it. _For the girl, _he reminded himself. _For the girl. _

Veravaz wasn't entirely sure how to do this. Of course, he had fed on human blood before, but he had always killed his unlucky victims.

Like Edward, he believed becoming a vampire was a damning fate, and he did not wish that on his worst enemy. Not even on James.

He raced back to the hotel room at vampire speed. There were maybe seconds left. This was _not _the time to over-think.

_Just do it, _he encouraged himself.

The girl was still so motionless. Had he killed her? He took a nanosecond to listen for a pulse. Yes, it was there, faint but still ebbing and flowing.

Biting the neck was so stereotypical, and yet he couldn't think of a less painful way. Reaching in, he nicked the nape of the neck.

The desire for the blood was instantaneous and overwhelming. With every iota of self-control he had, he drew in oxygen and held it indefinitely.

He waited for the girl to start thrashing, for her to have some recognition of the pain. He vaguely remembered his own human-to-vampire transformation.

Veravaz mainly remembered the awful pain, like nothing he had ever felt before. But nothing in the girl stirred.

Meanwhile, James was waiting outside the hotel room. He'd started to scale the wall, but something had stopped him dead in his tracks.

The unmistakable smell of a human turning into a vampire.

He could still get a whiff of the girl's delicious fragrance, but it was tainted with the sweet, floral smell of vampire venom.

Cursing his bad luck, he stood, a statue, for a long time outside the window. He could smell the venom overcoming the child.

What a shame. It was too bad, really. She had smelled lovely.

Sighing, he started to run towards another part of the country. Time to continue the game elsewhere.


	6. Chapter 6 Finding

To most vampires, waking up after the transformation is disconcerting. Scary, even.

For me, it was absolutely terrifying.

I had lived the last few...years, weeks, decades, whichever of my life in total darkness. Now every detail of the hotel room I was in was perspicuous.

Other than being able to see darkness, I had lost practically all of my senses. I'd barely heard, and hardly ever smelled.

Now, though, I could hear the sound of a mouse's heartbeat pounding in the walls. I could hear my neighbors arguing three floors below.

And the smells - oh! There is no way to describe a vampire's first smell of human blood. It was fuel, spiraling down from my nose and lighting a fire in my throat.

For a second I could see myself luring a fellow guest away, down into an abandoned alley. Well, that was a cliché.

I was confused, and yet my mind was working at the speed of sound.

Looking down, I realized I had to get to a mirror to figure this out. I got up and went into the hotel bathroom. Then I gasped in shock.

My brown hair, short and spiky, was perfectly held in place, as if by gel. I knew I hadn't used any products on it, but there it was. I wasn't the little twig of a girl I'd been in the asylum; I had a more natural, healthy look to me now. Aside from the snowy pallor.

But it was the eyes that stole my breath, made me gasp (and also made me realize I could hold my breath indefinitely). My eyes, you see, were a brilliant scarlet red.

Blood red.

As a test, I tried a quick run around my hotel room. I darted around the perimeter within three seconds.

Okay. I could put these facts together.

I was pale as a full moon, and impossibly fast. I lashed out at the headboard of the bed, and it fell to the floor with a crack. Make that impossibly fast _and _strong. I thirsted for human blood.

I realized what I was immediately.

A vampire.

A vampire who could see the future, I had to add.

Of course, there were some pieces to this that didn't click. Like the fact that the sun was flowing through the windows, but I was still in one piece. Although I did seem to be...shining. Um. Okay.

Like the fact that I had vermilion eyes, and that I could see my reflection in the mirror. Oh, and if my intuition was correct, I'd been sleeping in a bed. Not a coffin.

Like the fact that I could see the future, but it had...changed. I'd seen myself attacking a fellow guest, but now that wasn't there. I just saw myself waiting here.

Again I say, um. Okay.

I tried to breathe deeply. Figuratively, of course - I hadn't actually breathed since I saw myself in the mirror.

Well, okay. First, I needed to figure out who I was, exactly. I tried to remember something, anything.

The only thing I came up with was a name. _M _something. And my middle name had been...Alice.

Well, it was the only thing I had. So I'd use it. I didn't find a last name.

I needed to try to find someone. Another vampire or two. Did vampires live in covens, as folklore suggested? Or was that, like the myth about the sun and sleeping in coffins, null and void?

Either way, I needed to find another vampire, and fast. My craving for human blood was bordering on insatiable.

As soon as I got up, I was hit with a flash of the future. The vampire I would meet, perhaps?

Tousled blond hair and smoldering eyes the color of coal. He was wearing a uniform. He was really handsome, and around my age.

Well, assuming I was about seventeen years old. He looked about twenty, give or take.

Now all I had to do was figure out where he was. I searched through the vision, looking for some clues.

I could see the two of us meeting. Did that mean it was definitely going to happen? I didn't know my own powers.

Whatever. It wasn't the time to discover my strength. It was the time to find that vampire.

Frustrated, I threw a pillow lightly. Well, I thought it was light; it shattered a lamp to little glass beads.

There was _one _clue I had to go on. The two of us had been standing in a field, and currently, I was in a hotel. So I'd need to get to the closest meadow possible.

I didn't really think I should walk downstairs. I mean, I knew I didn't look human. So I chose the easy alternative of climbing out the window.

After I landed on the ground (not injured at all from a ten-story drop, which was kinda weird), my keen senses scanned the area for a field.

I didn't see any sign of one. Disappointing, but not too bad. I saw myself _not _sleeping tonight - another vampire thing? - so I'd have more time.

Hm. Maybe I should come up with a strategy. In my mind, I drew an invisible line as far out as I could see. Then I drew another one, intersecting at its midpoint. Basically, I had a cross.

If I connected the lines, it was a square divided into quarters. So I'd search through one today, the next tomorrow, etc.

No time like the present. I combed the first quarter, looking for a field. Meanwhile, I was also able to go through the vision, looking for more hints. I had the meadow memorized by then; I'd recognize it immediately if I saw it.

The day passed without any luck. I tried to give the vision sound, but it was muted. Oh well. I'd be able to get by without hearing.

Four days went by, and no luck. I decided I'd attempt a new venue. Reaching back in my mind, I called back the man's face.

I grabbed a sketchpad and a pencil and depicted as much of him as I could see. As soon as I was satisfied with my art, I went down to the police station.

"Do you know this man?" I asked.

They gave me a curious glance. "Who's asking?" a twig of a boy demanded.

"His sister," I said. I worked up a little innocence, a hint of tears. "We were in a car accident. I hit my head, and I'm trying like hell to remember his name but I just can't get it."

The two men on duty looked at each other. "How old is he?"

I guessed. "Twenty."

The older one sighed. "Let her look through the book, George." He shoved a thick binder toward me. "If you find him in there, you can take down his address."

Sighing, I got to work. I flipped through the pages like lightning, taking in every detail with my vampire mind. Finally, I found a name. _Jasper Whitlock. _

Below the name was an address, which I committed to memory. 

I shoved their book back at them. "Thanks, fellas," I said.

"Welcome," they called as I walked out the door.

Now I had a plan. There would be no obstacle that would get in my way.


	7. Chapter 7 Family

Using my lightning speed, I ran to Jasper's house. I was too quick for human eyes to see, just a blur on the sidewalk.

The house looked charming; a typical house, with a white picket fence and neatly mowed lawn. Hesitantly, I knocked on the door.

A withered old woman answered. She looked frazzled, with gray hair and sad eyes.

"Hello. Sorry to bother you, but do you know where I can find Jasper Whitlock?" I inquired steadily.

She narrowed her eyes at me. "What do you want with my son? He dead now. He die in war."

Are you sure about that? "Where did he die?" I interrogated.

"I don't know. They keep his body. They never give it back to me. They keep an old woman searching forever." She looked up at me. "He have two older sisters. But he was my favorite always. They take my baby."

She was rambling, and yet I could sense the sorrow in her meaningless words.

"Well, I'm very sorry, but do you know where he was fighting? I think I could find him, maybe," I ventured.

Her eyes lit up; she was a young girl again. "You do that?"

"I can try," I vowed.

The old woman gazed into the distance. "He fight in Civil War. He die long time ago. He be very old man now, if he live."

"Where did he - " and then I broke off suddenly. I suddenly saw us meeting, but this time, _he_ was coming to _me_. It was in a cheap diner, the kind that kept the lights dim so you didn't notice the cockroaches.

I forced a smile. "Thank you, ma'am. You've been very helpful." I turned without further ado and left. Finally, I found the exact spot.

Being a vampire apparently gave me a lifetime of patience. I discovered I could stay in the diner, all of its open hours, for a whole week. The managers didn't question me; I could see they would never.

The vision was still clear and strong, so I didn't doubt it. After ten days the door opened and in walked Jasper Whitlock.

His eyes were different; in my original vision, they'd been scarlet. Now they were as black as night. But I knew for a fact it was him.

I jumped lithely off the stool and went up to him. "You've kept me waiting a long time," I accused.

He hid his eyes. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

Barely believing my own boldness, I held out my hand. "Walk with me?" I solicited.

"Certainly," he said, taking my hand. Although it was irrational, his hand felt warm in mine. I realized that to outsiders, we might have looked like a couple.

I looked ahead, trying to see the future. A face stood out in my mind. He was older than Jasper or I, maybe twenty-five or so. He had smooth blond hair and strange yellow eyes.

Somehow, I knew what that meant. It meant he didn't feed off human blood. It meant he was still human.

Through a different kind of magic, I knew Jasper and I were meant to join him. We would be part of his family.

"I'm Alice," I told him. "I know who you are. You're Jasper Whitlock."

He looked mildly surprised. "Yes, I am. Nice to meet you, ma'am," he added, tilting his hat to me.

"You as well," I returned. "I can see the future."

Jasper smiled wryly. "I sort of guessed," he answered. "Have you always been able to do this, or is a nicely acquired talent since you..." He trailed off, uncomfortable.

"Changed?" I asked. "I don't remember," I mused. '"Everything about my human days seems...black."

He frowned. "That's odd," he commented. "Usually human memories are blurry and unclear, but still _there_."

I shook my head. "I'm done with the past," I declared. "Let's talk about the future."

Jasper grinned, an amused smile that could melt lead. Or me. "The future?" he asked uncertainly. "What do you know about my future, Alice?"

I'd never heard my name said quite like that before. "I only know what you decide," I responded coyly.

"Well, what are my options?" he prodded.

I grappled for the man's name. "There's a man in the state of Washington. His name is...Carlisle. Carlisle Cullen. He knows a way not to hunt humans."

"And?" Jasper asked.

I took a deep breath. "And I know he'd let us live with him."

"Us," he repeated.

"I'm going. I don't know if you're going with me," I teased.

"Say I am," he prompted. "What is this...Carlisle's secret?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is that he's different."

Jasper squeezed my hand. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I'd follow you anywhere."

So that was that. We were going to meet Carlisle.

The two of us ran for God-knows-how long. I knew just where I was going, and I don't think it was a vampire trait.

And that's how I met my new family. That is how I came into my niche. That's how I met the Cullens.


End file.
